Exist in Fixed Amounts
by Hearts Trickle Down
Summary: A collection of oneshots for the LJ community mission insane. Mostly Dan- and Rorschach-centric. Current: Paranoia, The Comedian does not have the smoothest transition from 'Nam to the States.
1. Ghost, DanxLaurie

Find Rest By Any Means  
R  
Post-Karnak. Dan/Laurie. Dan is haunted.

It starts with nightmares.

Not even particularly frightening ones, just disconcerting. He dreams of darkness and of iced blood in snow and of pools of dark green in alleyways. When he wakes, shaking, startled, he tries not to wake up Laurie. He tries not to listen to the rushing-wind sound in his ears that makes his entire body tingle with acute fear.

"You OK?" Laurie asks, more and more often, brushing the back of her hand over his cheek. They aren't at a point where he can lie to her; when he tells her about the dreams and the worrying way they cling to his skin, she does her best to soothe him. Sometimes it works. Often it makes Dan feel a little sick, a little paranoid; and it's hard not to look back when they make love. It feels like he's being _watched_. He doesn't like that.

*

It's taken them long enough to properly settle, but now that they have, they begin recreating their identities. Laurie argues with him about the benefits of visiting a professional tailor, because they can't spend enough money to keep someone quiet. They make do, buying Kevlar at three different stores and learning how to work a sewing machine. Dan's only been able to save his goggles - Archimedes sits in the ocean, unusable, sunk deep enough to avoid submarines and boats. He still has the remote, of course, but he reminds himself that they need to be _careful_.

Fortunately, it's easy enough to recreate the other things he's lost. He tries to be more practical, working on a special radar and on a non-lethal taser and various gas bombs. He sleeps easy the nights he works the hardest. Predictably, he works until long after Laurie's gone to bed, smiling at him over her shoulder but not expecting him to leave his work for her. (Occasionally, the thought crosses his mind that he is replaying his parent's marriage; he dismisses it each time - after all, they will hit the streets together.)

The feeling that he is being watched is lessened by his definitive sense of purpose, which is a relief. He's never been one to harbor paranoia; it doesn't sit well with him.

*

Their costumes are almost finished, but they still don't have decisive names. Part of it is that it's hard to let go of who they were (faces on top of faces); part of it is that neither of them have ever had to worry about names before.

"Oh," Laurie says one evening, sprawled on the couch and stretching out a length of rope, "I know. _You_ can be Rorschach II -"

"_Laurie_!"

" - and I'll be Ms. Manhattan." She grins at him upside-down, coiling the rope around her forearms. "Or is that too obvious?"

"No. No _way_." He knows it's a joke, but hearing that name (how long has it been now, how long) hurts in a way that he can't explain. It sets his teeth on edge, too, makes him panicky, and he's not sure he wouldn't hit her if she said that name again. The sensation is startling and nerve-wracking; he adjusts his glasses and sits back. "Don't joke about that," he adds once he's sure he will say what he means.

Laurie studies him, hair slipping over the edge of the couch in loose strands. She doesn't apologize; instead she gets up and wraps her bound arms around his neck. They stay like that a long time.

*

Their first night of official patrol is on foot and incredibly anticlimactic - which, really, Dan should've expected. They chase some vandals out of an alley, which they think means it'll be a busy night. It's not, though, the streets offering nothing more vulgar than Veidt's ads and the occasional crumpled porno mag loose in the breeze. The longer they skulk the streets, the less Dan wants to stay out. He knows they're not being followed - there's no subtle footsteps or shifting shadows, and when he checks his radar, he and Laurie are the only people on the streets within fifty feet.

He _knows _there's no reason to look over his shoulder, no reason to stay on guard. Still, he can't help but feel every brush of wind as a breath at his neck; the streetlights feel like eyes; a loose can hitting his foot feels like a hand reaching up, ice-cold, not stopping at his ankle but clawing up to his throat.

"Take it easy," Laurie says, trying to smile at him.

Dan looks at her, at the bold curves of her body, encased in dark spandex and Kevlar. His heart picks up, but it's not from lust. "Right," he laughs, "just feels a little weird being out again."

*

He expects the nightmares to cease completely once they pick up patrol, and for a time, they do. Dan works out after his day job (11 to 4 in a hardware store), tinkers with his gear, suits up - when he sleeps, it's a grateful one, hard to jar. It's the moments between that begin setting him off - one night during a shower, the water goes cold; he warns Laurie about it, but when she comes out of the bathroom she's frowning. Behind her, the mirror is obscured by steam.

Another time he's taking a nap - just a quick one - and is woken by their front door opening and slamming shut. Dan lays still and listens to Laurie moving about the kitchen, opening and shutting the fridge - but by the time he rouses himself out of bed, the apartment's empty. (Nothing's missing or even out of place, and when Dan asks their landlady if she'd heard anyone coming up the stairs, she insists she hadn't.)

And once - just once - he is washing his hands when he looks up. Suddenly he hears Laurie yelling for him - the mirror is broken and his hand is bleeding down his forearm - all he did was _blink _- and when Laurie stitches up his hand, he tells her that he doesn't want to talk about it (not that he doesn't know what's happening, never that, because the prospect closes his throat).

*

The nightmares, inevitably, pick up.

*

He'd only seen the carnage from a _distance_, why is it so vivid -

*

"Oh, _Daniel_. Daniel, Daniel, Daniel…Please -"

His face bruising like a video fast-forwarding, going black and blacker and splitting open, splitting raw and wide -

"Do grow up."

*

"Holy _shit_," Laurie moans, "Dan, what…Dan, talk to me, please."

*

They talk about taking a break from patrol until - until Dan is feeling better. "It'll give you some time to work on that new car," Laurie tells him, smiling only with her mouth and rubbing his neck. "You've been stressing. It'll be good for you. Hell, if you want I can keep patrolling - not like I've never done it alone."

"If you want," Dan says miserably, staring at his reflection in a mug of tea.

It lasts three days, until he sees an article in the newspaper about a double homicide - and he doesn't know if he can attribute his shivering to rage or something else entirely, but he _does _know that he can't remain docile any longer. He has a duty, and he can't shirk it just because strange things are happening to him. That night he suits up, and when Laurie asks him if he's sure, he only glares at her and snaps his goggles over his eyes.

*

There are long, twisting alleyways in his dreams - ones he knows by heart but which are contorted in his sleep. Ever present are long bridges of tentacles, dripping overhead, embedded into buildings that are on the edge of collapse. He moves over bodies, only catching sight of them in his periphery; their faces stay with him, decorated in blood that always seems so perfectly symmetrical, that resembles -

Always the path is the same, down streets that feel like cobblestone for all the debris and shattered glass underfoot. He is going to a skyscraper; it is untouched, brilliant against a horizon of gray steel and shining windows. The Veidt building. He must go to the Veidt building, because New York needs him, New York is turning in on herself and she _needs _him to do this. The graceless, ungrateful city deserves better, and that is why his path is always to the Veidt building, the shining V of the roof glowing like a beacon.

*

Nothing's happened outside of his control, not for two long, tense months; and if the nightmares and constant feel of being observed is the price to pay for that small peace, he's glad to pay.

*

He and Laurie bust their first major drug ring together; to celebrate, they climb into the backseat of his car and have hurried sex (zippers catching and Dan hitting his funny bone so hard that he doesn't stop cursing for a while). It's going pretty great, really - no problems with the equipment, and recently he's figured out this trick that drives Laurie crazy - and God it's been _ages _since sex has been so exciting.

Laurie's hooked her legs around his waist when it happens - he just starts _shaking_. At first he ignores it, but within a minute it's so bad that he's having trouble seeing straight, and…and it's not shaking so much as it is _spasms_, and he wonders dimly if he's having a seizure.

"Hey - Christ, what's the matter? Dan - _Dan_!" Laurie pushes herself up, holds his face at eye-level, but he can't - just - focus on her. "_Dan_, look at me, hey, what's going on? Shit, don't tell me you used to have epileptic _seizures _as a kid, god damn it - do you need a hospital?"

Dan moans and brings his arms in on himself, shuddering and bowing low. "Stop," he whispers, "stop."

"Dan -" Dim yellow light from a nearby streetlight illuminates the tears tracking down her face. "What _is _it, huh? _Talk _to me!"

"Please," he groans, because what else can he do? "Please, stop."

And it does.

*

Laurie lights up her third cigarette in half an hour. "I mean, we could try a priest. I guess."

Dan rubs his forehead, staring up at the ceiling. "Look, we don't even know if that's…if that's what's happening."

"Maybe you should call Veidt," she suggests, managing to intonate Veidt like _fuck_.

"No." Dan shuts his eyes. "I, uh…don't think that'd help. At _all_."

Laurie sighs and stubs out the cigarette, half-finished. "Well fuck."

*

Laurie's on recon for the night, silent as a mouse over her transmitter - she hasn't complained in an hour, which is a funny enough thought to make Dan smile to himself as he turns into an alley and adjusts his goggles. It feels strange to split up with her - working together is a matter of course and has been from the beginning. At least the night's been quiet so far, though a few hours ago Dan cuffed a pusher to a light post.

"Fuckin' wedgie," Laurie grumbles over the transmitter.

Before Dan can reply to that (_now, Laurie, save the dirty talk for later_) a scream rings out to his right. On full alert, Dan turns and bolts down the street, listening hard - there is another shout, cut short and muffled almost immediately, but it's enough. Running into the alley, Dan sees them - two men have a woman cornered. He can see a knife clear as day, running up her thigh, and if the woman is screaming anymore Dan doesn't hear it past the blood pounding in his ears.

Driven by acute, sudden rage, Dan storms towards them. He drives the heel of his hand into the neck of the first; the second turns, sees him, but it's too late because the knife was moving up her skirt and - and Dan knows what is happening before it happens for the first time.

There are only blurs, and a sharp pain in his wrist, and by the time he is himself again he is covered in blood.

*

They both agree another break is necessary. Laurie splints his wrist and lays against him at night, very still. He is acutely aware of every inch of his body, taut and dangerous. Dangerous. It's never occurred to him that anyone else would be in danger - he's across the country from Veidt, after all, and everything so far has been an internal breaking. Not even a real danger to _him_, just the panicked lashing out that comes with those trapped in corners.

*

When he dreams, it is cold. It is cold and palm trees rise out of the snow, bending against the Antarctic wind. It is cold, and his nose is sore, and his partner is telling him _never compromise_, and it doesn't even sound like _goodbye_, it just sounds irritated and rough.

It is cold, and everything is white and blue and frozen deep, cracking open. It is cold, and Dan reaches up to his face; he peels his skin away, blood frozen to his skull - and there is only a moment of pause where all he can think is _New York, New York_, and then the light is warm, the light is -

*

(_Daniel, Daniel, Daniel._

Black and blacker and splitting, blood freezing on his neck, eyes rolled up, gone, only a cold sneer left, gone.)

*

"Dan. _Dan_."

He blinks.

"Where are you going?" The light that runs down Laurie's stomach is pale, very pale.

Dan looks at his hand, resting on the doorframe.

"I don't know," he answers her.

*

Dan is sitting in a chair in their kitchen, gloves resting in his lap. It's early August and the windows are open, but he is very cold. Goosebumps run up his forearms, climb their way into his stomach. He knows if he just turns around, if he just _looks _- but all he can do is shut his eyes. It is an admittance of presence, the only one he can safely give.

"What do you _want _from me?" he asks the air, but it's ridiculous. He knows the answer. Of course he does.

There is a pressure at the base of his skull. It might be an apology.

It's equally likely that Dan is just losing his mind.

*

"God," Laurie murmurs, staring at their mirror. Dan sits on the rim of the bathtub and takes off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes; they're incredibly sore. "This is seriously fucked up." There are patterns in black all across the mirror; the smell is so overpowering that Dan thinks he might vomit. "And you don't even…remember buying the paint."

"No." He puts his head in his hands. "I don't."

"Okay," she says. "Okay." Kneeling next to him, she hugs his neck. "Are you scared?"

"Aren't _you_?"

He can feel someone watching them.

*

Dan wakes up in a motel in Iowa, hair dyed brown again. He calls Laurie to tell her he's all right. He doesn't bother attempting the drive back.

*

After breakfast, things get fuzzy again.

*

The next time he is of present mind, he is standing in an alleyway - one he remembers well, actually, because he almost died here in '66. A Katie-head got lucky, put him in the hospital for a month. He doesn't feel anything in particular when he sees where he is. There's change enough in his pockets for a phone call.

"Hey, Laurie," he murmurs into the phone. "I love you."

"You're gonna be fine," Laurie snarls at him; he can hear the flick of a lighter. "Stop talking like - that."

Dan shuts his eyes. "Well, if I'm _not_," he insists.

"Yeah," she whispers. "Love you too."

When he hangs up, things fade out again. He's grateful at least for the phone call.

*

When Dan opens his eyes, there is symmetry looking back. There is no need to question anything about the moment. He knows what he has to do.

Dan tightens the belt of his trench coat, turns, and walks out of the motel.

The Veidt building is not far away at all.


	2. Desperate, DanxRorschach

Rest Not  
PG-13  
Dan/Rorschach. Rorschach has a sex dream.

Daniel hits the pavement, hard, and it is only after that the sound of the metal pipe connecting to fragile skin and fragile skull rings, echoing, and Rorschach has no time to react - there's a knife glancing aiming at his stomach and lower but the blood flutters away, strobing shadows over the alleyway and the cowl should have done a better job protecting Daniel it should have but it's pulled from his gaunt face and there are dark stains that are too similar to bruises and Daniel's eyes are shark's eyes, black and staring and dead except his chest heaves, his chest

and Rorschach can't stop curling in on the open wound but it's all right, he exposes the back of his neck to air, only air and shadows and shadows can't hurt not here, not with Daniel's soft face shining like a sunrise, like watercolors -

"Come," Rorschach murmurs, "Daniel, come." When Daniel rises, blood skitters down but his face is alive, it's

*

"It's all right, Walter," he tells him, rubbing the mask off Rorschach's cheeks as if it's paint and not latex, rubbing and rubbing until it's staining his hands and wrist and he wipes at the flush skin of his lips, stains them black and white - "I fell on soft trash, I'm all right, see?"

Only it doesn't make sense, goggles flashing like dead shark eyes, rolling, and the stains ripple over his mouth and he doesn't stop touching Rorschach's, Walter's, face, rubbing

*

His throat expands weirdly and Walter _told _him that his tie would only be dangerous would kill him - the cowl why didn't he wear the cowl

his face on Daniel's hands on Daniel's wrists and he's bare as Daniel, clawing at the tie, and that's when his mouth opens when he can see the thick dull shifting behind his tongue

"Spit it out," he begs, "please, spit it out spit it out"

Daniel heaves and warm slickness splatters on his chest, writhes like maggots through his clothes and his glasses shine as Walter pulls, pulls at the tie because he can't breathe he can't open his throat wide enough he's choking, spit running down his mouth and

and it might help to lay him down so Walter does, holding a hand against Daniel's forehead where the blood is draining out and it's soft there and he coughs again, vomiting over the side of the bed, throat raw and red outside and the thick wetness falling out like a birth and Daniel gasps, arching under his touch

panting, eyes bright, cheeks smudged high with stark black and white and Walter can feel everything pliant going hard like blood congealing and

"Walter, Walter, thank y-"

*

Walter wakes, thrumming under his skin.


	3. Special, Dan

Tomorrow, We'll Fly  
G  
Dan's father sparks his love of birds.

His dad's birds always know how to get home, which Dan thinks is the most amazing thing. He can't even do that, or at least he couldn't when he got lost at the fair a few years ago; now his dad makes sure he always knows where Dan is going. "If your mother knew," he says, and the idea is just concrete enough to keep Dan in line. Dan has to think about the way home, memorizing street names and how many times to turn left. Except to go to the park. He knows _that_ by heart, but if his dad took him to, say, the river and left him there, he'd just get lost, which isn't the case for the pigeons at all.

Their pigeon coop is tall and always smells sharp and bright, like the pigeons do when Dan kisses their heads. They're always gentle, though a couple times they nip his fingers when he holds too tight or tries to pet their feathers the wrong way. None of them have names, though secretly, they do. His dad kneels and holds them out, brushing their beaks with his thumbs: "See, it's important that their eyes are clear - that means they're not sick. Look." When Dan asks him questions, he smiles at him, proud.

*

They're at the park on a Saturday and Dan's father puts a pigeon (Gordon) into his hands. "Here, you try it." The others aren't even specks in the sky anymore, and Dan wonders if they're really that small or if their house is really that far away. "Just let him go - go on, toss him."

Dan's old enough to know not to talk to animals, so he leans down and whispers "Good luck -" that way his father won't hear him. He's almost afraid Gordon won't go into flight, that he'll recognize Dan's desire to keep him still and will simply fall. He doesn't. When Dan tosses him up, he opens his wings, flaps hard, and is gone, wings still as he soars.

"Why isn't he flapping his wings?" Dan's not sure how he never noticed it before. He's embarrassed until his father smiles at him, one that Dan can feel down inside his stomach, lighting him up.

"Very observant, Daniel. That's because they don't flap their wings - birds _glide_ on air currents." He pats Dan's shoulder, smiling now at the sky. "Not many people know that, or ever notice for that matter."

Dan recognizes his father's compliments (rare as they are) and tries not to grin too noticeably.

*

When he asks for a pair of binoculars for his birthday, he can tell he's going to get them.

*

When he's old enough, he rides his bike to the park, and does as often as he can, eventually without even asking for permission. He shows his father his notes and doesn't even have to ask for the big bird book his father gives him not long after. He earns straight A's and learns how to recognize birds by the patterns of their feathers, and it is the latter that elicits the brightest sincerity.

*

The pigeons die, and his father dies.

But Nite Owl is born.


	4. Beast, Rorschach

Consequence  
PG  
Post-Roche. Rorschach is followed by a dog.

Rorschach, disguised as Walter Kovacs, sat on a bench _without_ a sigh and set his sign between his feet. Pigeons knew better than to beg for scraps from him, but still some landed around him, cooing and tilting their heads at jaunty angles, daring him to deny them breadcrumbs.

"Go away," he commanded. As per usual, they continued to meander about. Walter nodded solemnly at their stubbornness and pulled out a moldy fistful of bread. Sometimes, New York deserved a reward for her fierce will. Only sometimes.

*

He spotted the dog out of the corner of his eye and did not make a show of it. No reason to. After all, it was just a stray dog - could be _any_ dog - and the pigeons were crowding around his shoes and wailing at him.

Walter knew that dogs were perhaps the only inherently good things on this earth.

Rorschach knew that good dogs were easy to kill.

He wasn't concerned.

*

When the dog slunk up to him, ears low, tail deferential, Walter knew exactly what it was and why it was there.

"You're here," he said, fists clenching around the base of his sign. He refused to look the dog in the eyes. The dog whined and edged closer. A woman jogged by them and Walter did not move to speak or touch the dog, watching her with narrowed eyes as she made the pigeons scatter. Once she'd passed, he let himself focus on the dog. "Over, now," he told it. "No use coming to me."

The dog barked.

Walter curled his lip, body gone rigid with subtle shock. "_What_?" he hissed. "Have nothing to offer you. No penance to pay." The dog nudged his wrist with a nose and made a low sound that was almost a growl. "Did nothing _wrong_," he continued, "only did what had to be done. Go away."

When the dog only licked his wrist and whined, Walter stood.

"Go away," he repeated.

He was not surprised when the dog followed him.

*

It followed him to the door of the Gunga Diner, whimpering and growling at him, and when the door snapped shut it trotted across the street, plunked down next to his mail drop, and began to howl.

Walter spilled his coffee over his hands and couldn't bring himself to finish it.

*

"I understand that I have no control in this," he grumbled, doing his best to not swing the sign into the dog's face, "but would prefer if you shut your mouth." The dog yipped and sank its teeth into his coat. "Stop it." The dog pulled, growling, backing ineffectually towards an alleyway. "_Stop _it." He took a moment to meet the stare of a young businessman walking by, careful not to glare and doubly careful not to break the gaze.

Thankfully, the dog chose that moment to release his coat - unfortunately, it also chose that moment to start _barking_ again, loud, angry barks that made it difficult to not kick the beast in the jaw.

"Shut up," he whispered, shivering all over. "Don't owe you _anything_."

But it didn't stop barking. The sound followed him down six city blocks and further, still, and when he ducked into an alleyway and covered his ears it made no difference.

*

That night, Rorschach wondered for the first time when he last patrolled with Daniel. It'd been two months, easily, and Rorschach couldn't remember how long Daniel attended the bird convention - or whatever it was. It could've been near four months since he'd last seen the other man.

He didn't need a partner and he wasn't going because of the dog. It was simply that Daniel could probably use Rorschach's help on patrol.

*

Daniel wasn't home.

The dog, however, was sitting on Daniel's doorstep, whining through the door from the moment Rorschach stepped into the kitchen. He voted to ignore the thing, unwilling to waste time with an animal when Daniel was so evidently in need of assistance. Rorschach stalked through the house, flipping on every light and opening even the closets, hunting him.

The costume was still downstairs.

The only natural conclusion, then, was that Daniel was visiting with Hollis tonight. Not a problem. Rorschach could wait.

*

Rorschach foraged through Daniel's fridge, ignoring what had evolved from whining to full-out barking and long, heavy scratches. He had a knife in a mustard jar, halfway finished making a ham sandwich, when he finally snapped.

"_Fine_!" Throwing open the door, Rorschach pointed the dripping butter knife at the dog. "Come _in_, but stay away." For a long moment, the dog and Rorschach glared at each other; without waiting for Rorschach to move, the dog brushed past him and sat facing him. Growling under his breath, Rorschach slammed the door shut hard enough to rattle the glass. "Better hope Daniel likes dogs," he warned it, indiscriminately dropping lobs of mustard onto the sandwich. "Hehn. Better hope no priests are committing crimes, for that matter."

The dog sidled over to the cabinet and propped its feet up, looking up at Rorschach. If there was urgency there, Rorschach ignored it, shoving the dog's paws off the countertop. "Down," he snapped. At first the dog bared its teeth at him, ears swiveling back - but a dim spark of intelligence lifted its ears and the dog laid down, watching Rorschach.

Rorschach sat in a chair and frowned at the sandwich. It'd been four days since he had a proper meal, but the eager brown eyes of the dog drained him of his appetite. "Not getting any," he informed the dog. With that, he took as large a bite as he could, just to spite the thing. The dog whimpered. Rorschach almost choked.

*

Two hours and thirty minutes later, Rorschach paced from living room to kitchen to basement, tailed by a dog that just wouldn't sit _still_ and keep _quiet_. It insisted on whimpering and pawing at things and reminding him with every flick of its ears and lift of its tail of a little girl and a warm shock of blood and the smell of smoke and.

And the dog whined.

"Fred, is that who you are?" Rorschach asked, going very still. Under the kitchen's florescent lights it looked so solid despite the haze of memory. "Barney? Or maybe Roche? Hn?" He could feel the cleaver in his hand. "There's nothing to give," he whispered. "Can't you understand?"

The dog nuzzled his hand, ears flat.

Rorschach could not hurt the dog, even if he wanted to, and there was nothing left inside to shatter - so he broke instead what he could.

He didn't think of Daniel once.

*

Three hours later, Rorschach was tearing through Daniel's house, yelling until his voice was hoarse.

"Where _are_ you? Where did you _go_?!"

Three hours later, the dog laid shuddering under Daniel's bed, vision blurred, head throbbing where a chair nicked him.

*

An animal howled.

*

Rorschach did not see the dog again.

*

A week later, Dan Dreiberg came home to everything outside of his basement wrecked, inhabited only by a man in a trench coat.

He knelt and touched his wrist.


	5. Touch, DanxRorschach

Careful  
PG  
Pre-Roche. Dan/Rorschach. Dan stitches up Rorschach's wound, and then some.

"Just - sit still," Daniel told him. The pain in his arm was so severe that he couldn't think far past it; his thoughts kept rushing towards instinct, and the only instinct he knew was _fight_. But Daniel was good, firm expression ringed in sweaty brown hair and sure hands armed with sutures and antiseptic. When he rolled up Rorschach's sleeves, there was a hiss and a curse, but the distinction was lost to Rorschach, who only wanted to hurt someone in return.

"Okay, I think I can stitch this up." The smile he offered was meant as an assurance, but it was too thin; it may as well not have existed. "It's not too bad, just deep - shouldn't do worse than scar, so long as you keep it clean. Here we go. First stitch." It was odd to hear him talking like that; typically Daniel was more quiet and indirect.

By the third stitch, Rorschach had informed Daniel of his favorite color (indigo), his favorite sport (boxing) and his greatest accomplishment (bringing down Big Figure). The pain was more manageable, and he was grateful to Daniel for asking impersonal questions and filling in his curt answers with long replies. Once Daniel finished (hands bloody), he sat back and did not bother smiling. "You sure you don't want a painkiller?"

Rorschach shook his sleeve over his arm and stood. It was answer enough.

*

It occurred to him the next day that he should have _thanked_ Daniel; in the consequent surge of guilt he ruined a line of stitching and spent the next ten minutes furiously pulling the stitches and running it back under the machine as straight as he could. He refused to lose focus again.

That night, he attempted to clean his arm over Daniel's sink before Daniel came downstairs, to no avail. When he caught him, he made no show of it, plucking the rag Rorschach had soaked with alcohol and guiding him without a word to sit in a chair.

"I was wondering if you were going to stop by for patrol, but -"

"Thank you," Rorschach interrupted; he knew it was the wrong time, wrong tone, wrong place, but if it wasn't said it never would be and he owed Daniel at least that much.

He peered at Rorschach a moment. "I don't think you should patrol tonight. Beating up Knot Tops will only open the stitches again." What he didn't say was: "I know you won't listen to me, so kick more tonight, at least -" which was clear enough in the tired smile and slight shrug at Rorschach's reticent silence.

By the time patrol was finished, Daniel had to stitch in two new stitches, which he did without fuss or complaint. Rorschach didn't forget to thank him, that time, but afterwards wasn't sure that he should've - Daniel looked at him over his glasses and stroked the tips of his (calloused, he noted) fingers parallel to the line of his stitches.

"It's not a problem," he said, and he rolled Rorschach's sleeve down (careful, careful).

*

The only reason he went the next night was because he knew Daniel didn't want him in the way Rorschach sometimes thought he did (in the way Walter sometimes hoped he did), and that even if he _did_ he wouldn't act on it. Daniel handled his arm gently and rubbed a cotton ball over it with as much care and concentration as he must have dedicated to Archimedes' heart. When he was finished and stepped into Nite Owl, he didn't waste his breath asking Rorschach to be careful with his arm - but during the night his head tilted down again and again to peer at Rorschach's arm; and once, just once, he took his sleeve between his fingers, unprompted, and rubbed it.

He had to replace three stitches, that night, but he did without question. Rorschach did not notice the pain, and Daniel did not notice Rorschach watching him, incredulous.

*

It healed, slowly. Each night sparked their new routine, Daniel faithfully checking the wound and doing what he could to encourage healing. Rorschach wasn't used to being treated with such consistent kindness, even with the two years he had known Daniel. There'd never been occasion for Daniel to step past the sound boundaries they had of handshakes and pats on the shoulder, firm camaraderie that brought nothing into question. It was almost nice, having some decisive attention. Indulgent, too, but it would have been more than impolite to brush Daniel off, so he didn't.

*

Daniel took the time to pull the stitches out, careful as always and brushing his thumb after each empty span of skin. It was an effort to sit still, skin on the back of his neck prickling. Daniel maintained such a narrow focus, inexplicable and yet impossible to deny (_he only sees you_). Rorschach wanted to say many things, none of which would be appropriate - and as the last stitch was removed, he couldn't summon anything from his throat.

"Okay," Daniel said, grinning. "Looks like you're all set."

'Yes," Rorschach replied lamely. He watched Daniel scrape the stitches off the table and throw them away, snapping the first aid kit closed. "Daniel, I - am very grateful to how you have helped me."

Daniel turned to him and leaned back against his counter, holding the edges. His expression was difficult to read, humble and closed.

"Know I've said this, but -"

"Hey, don't worry about it," he said. His hands remained clenched against the countertop, knuckles white. "You'd do the same for me." They stared just past each other, tension rippling the air. Rorschach didn't know where it came from or why he wanted to press it, but Daniel didn't let it persist. "So, uh, you ready for patrol?" His hands released; tucked into the pockets of his pants. Rorschach nodded and rose; they left together.

*

(In the morning, Daniel presses Rorschach into a chair and rolls up his sleeve, though there is no blood on his coat and there is only a red line left. Rorschach lets him.

He also lets Daniel roll up his other sleeve -

And he lets him tuck his fingers up underneath, palms sticky and warm on his forearms, and there is no occasion for the touch but he does not dwell on it.)


	6. Taboo, DanxLauriexRorschach

In Darkness  
PG-13  
AU Post-Karnak. Dan/Walter/Laurie. Walter starts wearing Laurie's clothes.

It's been a long time since he's done this, but transgressions seem so much smaller, now. There's the shame and the anger and the pressure in his throat - that will never go away - but it's also less important. He won't tell them - never will - but his silence is born more from apathy than sickness; it will be easier to not explain himself, to not wonder what their reactions will be. He can hear Laurel - _gee, who knew you were so kinky, Walter_, all hard smiles and bright eyes. Daniel wouldn't say anything except maybe _oh_, but he wouldn't look away.

No. It's better alone, something they cannot touch. With so much of him bare and torn raw for them, he thinks he's earned this sanctuary.

She doesn't have much to choose from, not really. They all smell like her, faintly, familiar and frightening. He touches a skirt. Brown, cotton and polyester, goes down mid-calf, subtle ruffles making it billow out just enough even when completely still. He's watched Daniel bunch the fabric up with a forearm, hungry eyes and hungry hands. Just once. She doesn't wear it often.

Walter pulls off the hanger and holds it up. Sensible. Modest. A good start. He slides it on over his pants, first, hitching it up to his bellybutton. It's a little loose, but it will stay on him. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror; the skirt shifts against his leg, subtle (dangerous).

He took a shower an hour ago. Laurel won't notice the smell of his body the next time she wears it - and if she does, it will be faint enough to make her suppose it's from her proximity to him, the aftermath of tentative shattering and scraping together. No, she won't suspect. Nobody does.

Slipping the skirt low enough so that he can unbutton and unzip his jeans (practical, androgynous, stained with old dust, safe), he carefully pushes them down. When he steps out of them, leaving them crumpled on the floor, he feels that old rush , ancient as he is and staggering. It's not something he can define, even as he sucks in a breath and brushes the cool fabric against his legs with shivering hands. It's heaviness and it's lightness, a rising away from himself.

Walter carefully strips his shirt. He'll need a new one, for now.

*

It's difficult to find time away from them - or at least any time substantial enough for…for this. They're all on such similar schedules, and often he has to wait for their grocery run (which Walter is never allowed on; he never stops informing them that they are wasting their money when there are perfectly good alternatives that are cheaper). Still, he goes on alone for six months, delicately piecing together outfits and doing menial tasks to stay busy. Often he'll write in his journal, tugging at his (no, Laurel's) clothing. Just feeling it. Existing in it.

If he can help it, he tries not to masturbate in the clothes. It feels like a great violation of Laurel's privacy, like he's doing something unthinkable to her. Disgust is part of it, too, and shame. He shouldn't feel the way he does. He knows that. Daniel will tell him that there's nothing with (_"uh, those urges"_) how his body reacts. Laurel doesn't lie to him that way, just strokes his face and tells him he'll be all right. Sometimes she'll admonish him, tell him to grow up, picking fights when he doesn't behave the way they want him to behave. Most often she just rolls her eyes and waits.

None of it really matters. The clothes are all cool and soft to the touch, far away from his reach. They are warm when he returns them to their proper place.

Sometimes he worries she'll notice that insubstantial heat.

Mostly, he doesn't think about it. Reducing the acts to something remote makes them more bearable.

*

Laurel has a dress that quickly becomes his favorite - it's for winter wear and hides enough of his body to be comfortable. It's black with a high neck; there are slits down the side which run up to his thigh, but the hem falls around his ankles. It's sleeveless; there are long gloves to match and keep heat. He's never seen her wear it (and if he is not careful, considers it his). There's been no occasion for her to wear it - that's her explanation to Dan when they are doing a spring cleaning and he asks why she hasn't given it away.

"I like it," she explains, tugging at the neck, "but there's just not been a reason to wear it yet." She looks at Walter suddenly, just looks - and there is no expression there, no accusation, but he has to bite down on the bitter panic that works into his chest.

But she can't know. She looks away, shrugs at Daniel, smiles. Her hand trails down and then is gone.

*

They're out renting movies, which Walter is sure gives him at least half an hour. He strips himself away and disappears into the dress, stroking at the exposed line of his neck (pulse thrumming) with gloved fingertips. The smooth fabric brushes at his legs as he walks down the hallway to the living room; the carpet is soft against his bare feet. He wants to disappear into the sensation of dark silk and become something else, something new. He can't. That is one thing that he is learning to accept.

He's going to vacuum - they trust him with that, although he's ruined two vacuums by running them over the cord and a third by getting so frustrated at it that he carried it down to the ocean (walking the full 10 miles to get there and back, sufficiently panicking them) and threw it in. They act odd when he does things like vacuum, though he reasons it's only fair that he work in some way under their roof. Working, at least, keeps his focus away from the way the dress clings down his body. It makes the untouchable distance seem easier to bear.

He's not finished when they come home, laughing; the fact that he hears them before seeing them does him no good. The nearest window has been stuck shut ever since they moved in and the only door leads out to the living room - straight to them - and he's in the spare bedroom; there's no clothes in here; he can't, they can't, not -

Kicking the vacuum out of the room as a distraction, he slams the door shut and braces his body against it.

Immediately after that he realizes it would've been much wiser to let them discover him without fuss. (Laurel's yelling (worried) and Daniel's leaning against the door (worried) and the moment of panic is now a hot wash of shame and he's shivering.)

*

This is better than the alternative, he tells himself.

Daniel and Laurel are staring at him, the former utterly confused and the latter trying not to laugh. He's sitting naked on the guest bedroom bed, hands in his lap (dress tucked under the bed, hidden).

"So," Daniel says when the silence has stretched too long, "why did you feel the need to kick the vacuum, again?"

Walter shrugs. Laurie bursts out laughing.

"Okay," Dan says, looking lost. "Well, don't…do it again."

"Won't," he assures him.

*

It doesn't keep. He knew it wouldn't, but losing the tiny bit of secrecy still aches in a way he can't describe. He doesn't like keeping secrets as a rule, but having one that was his own to care for was special.

He's sitting on their bed in his dress (Laurel's, _Laurel's_), writing in his journal, piecing together a string of muggings that happened over the past two weeks. He doesn't hear them come in - he's lost in concentration, head spinning with the force of deductive thought. They're starting over. Not having to hide that most important part of him from them is valuable beyond words (they weren't angry when they found out, just frustrated - Dan stitching his arm was familiar in such a visceral way that it had been difficult not to cry).

"Hey, Wal -" Laurie says, opening the door to the bedroom. He freezes, staring at her. There's a moment where the sound of Dan humming in the kitchen breaks the silence. Then, "Oh."

Walter closes his journal and squares his shoulders; the dress feels too warm, suddenly, constricting. "Laurel," he says. "Welcome home."

She hesitates. "Do you want Dan to know?"

He shrugs. There's no point in excluding him (and Walter can feel his heart picking up pace, can feel the clammy sweat on his hands when he closes them into fists).

"Hey," Laurel calls back, "Dan, come in here."

"What, is something wrong?" he asks; Walter can hear a jar set down, hasty; his footsteps echo.

"Nope," Laurel says as he appears at her shoulder. "'Least I hope not."

Daniel blinks, takes off his glasses, and cleans them. When he puts them back on, Walter stands up, crossing his arms over his chest. "Holy shit," Dan says. Walter tightens himself, back of his neck prickling; it's a strict matter of will to keep a level gaze.

"I know, right?" Laurel glances at Daniel, then back to Walter, hands on hips. When Dan just blinks and stares, Laurel moves forward. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'd like to investigate this development." When she smiles at him, Walter feels something inside unravel (and there is too much trust to stay afraid).


	7. Baggage, DanxRorschach

Weight  
PG-13  
Dan/Rorschach. Dan and Rorschach take a vacation.

Rorschach packs light.

He brings:  
one pair of underwear  
one pair of pants  
two shirts; one orange, one gray  
three pairs of socks  
a bottle of Dan's cologne  
and one blank journal.

Everything else he either carries or leaves behind.

-

Dan tells himself that this is for the best. It's obvious they both need a break. From crime fighting, at least, if not from their identities. Rorschach may not make the latter possible; he climbs into the backseat wearing his mask and keeps it on even when carsickness kicks in and he has to shove it up to vomit in a plastic bag. Back down the fabric goes each time, three times in two hours.

"How much longer," Rorschach rasps two and a half hours in. He's curled in on himself in the backseat, looking truly miserable.

Dan decides this must have been a terrible idea from the beginning. "Maybe another hour," he says. "It'll be worth it, I promise."

"Hnn," Rorschach articulates. His fingers dig into his stomach and Dan prays he didn't just lie.

-

The house is just like Dan remembers it, though a little dustier inside, and smaller. Rorschach slips through the house as quietly as he can, as if he recognizes what ghosts lurk in the dusty corners. He leaves his bag in the living room, by the couch. His fingers leave clean, dark trails everywhere he goes.

The mask stays on.

-

Dan moves Rorschach's bag when he's out at the lake - well, pond, really. He sets it in Dan's old room, next to the bed, close to his own bag. He tries not to think of the implications.

-

They eat franks and chips by the pond, watching water striders walk across, chasing tiny ripples. Rorschach's reflection shifts in the water; no matter how comfortable they are, it stays. Dan doesn't press him. Not about this. The striders break the surface of the lake, cut Rorschach's mask into smooth circles.

In '64, Dan never bothered to wonder when the mask would come off. Here, in '71, it is a bargain without any pay save glimpses of red hair through the corner of his eyes, the sharp shadow of an exposed cheekbone. Freckles on his shoulders.

-

To be fair, Dan didn't bring much more than Rorschach. A small bottle of lube, a few more pants and shirts, a book about mythology, his goggles, binoculars, a toothbrush and toothpaste, soap. He almost didn't bring the lube, because he has no idea how Rorschach will take intimacy outside of violence, and the trip's not about that, anyway. It's about letting go of a string of bad cases, recentering themselves with a few days of peace. Anything else is inconsequential.

-

When dusk settles in, cool and timid, Dan slings his binoculars around his neck and leads Rorschach into the surrounding woods. At first he's not sure that he'll remember the old trails, but under shadow of the trees a dim part of him cracks open, almost like donning Nite Owl's cowl. He trusts his feet, and Rorschach, behind, trusts in the whisper of his body as they stalk through the bracken and undergrowth.

There's a thin patch of meadow by a ditch, and it's there Dan sinks to his knees - for a heartbeat he looks up at Rorschach and imagines unzipping his pinstripes, taking him in his mouth. It passes. He settles onto the soft ground and waits.

Rorschach lays close enough for their arms to touch and rolls up his mask - to the nose, for now.

Somewhere in the tall grass, creatures skitter. Soon the owls will hunt.

-

But it's not until the moon's overhead that Rorschach recedes into whoever he is without the mask. Daniel's relieved in a small way that he didn't bring his goggles and so has no need to resist the urge to see him clearly; the moonlight slicing across his sharp face and wiry hair is enough.

"Daniel," he whispers when a screech dies in the air.

Dan has nothing to whisper back. Instead, he presses the binoculars into his hands and shuts his eyes.

-

_You know who is important_ - that's what Rorschach told him years ago, what Dan refuses to believe. He remembers that, as he nudges his open mouth against the man's neck. Dan can feel him shiver.

-

The mask doesn't shift as it sits on the ground, just a few inches away.

Dan's binoculars are cold where their chests meet.

-

His Adam's apple bobs, swallowing back his pleasure; his bared teeth glow. He comes over his stomach, chokes out soft noises, and he lets Dan cup a hand against the back of his neck. They lay together until their sweat is dried, skin chilled by each breeze.

Rorschach takes his mask in one hand, but he only holds it for a while, fingers closing and opening like a tired butterfly's wings.

-

The next day Rorschach's mask is over his chin again.

But that night, he sits on the edge of Dan's bed, bag between his feet, and tilts his head back when Dan's hands seek the bottom of his mask.


	8. Want, Laurie

Choosing Sides  
PG  
Laurie's attempts at keeping a pet, coupled with her more violent urges and Sally's parenting not always going as planned.

Laurie carries a box of kittens home.

"Mom," she explains in tears when her mother hauls them into the back of the car, "they were gonna die, what was I _supposed_ to do?"

Sally sighs. "What you did, honey." Seeing the tears on Laurie's grungy cheeks, she delivers a kiss to her forehead and ruffles back her bangs. "I'm not mad at you," she assures her. She doesn't let Laurie come with her to the Humane Society, though, and Laurie spends the night crying in her room.

The next day they go to a ferret breeder.

By the next month, the ferret's found in the backyard, mangled by a cat.

*

Laurie has terrible luck with animals, but she means well and tries so hard to find a balance between viciousness and care that Sally can't deter her, except when it turns into talk of her becoming a veterinarian. Sally has higher aspirations for her than _that._

_*_

She loses three goldfish and a beta she calls HJ.

She learns how to disarm a man in under five seconds.

*

When Laurie is eleven, her mother's boyfriend, Dominic, takes her to an exotic pet store after he catches Laurie raptly watching a nature show on lizards. It's obvious what he's doing - connect to the girl to stay close to the mother - but Laurie likes him better than most of her mom's boyfriends anyway and he's promised to keep Sal under control when she finds out.

Laurie comes home with a tarantula. She names him Blake, which is a name she's overheard from her mother and likes for the blunt way it clicks out of her mouth. She spends an hour on her bed with him, letting him crawl over her stomach and arms, enamored at the feather-dust feel of his legs. He's gorgeous. When he eats, it's hideous, and her nose crinkles in disgust at the same time her lips split into a fascinated grin.

In the other room, she can hear her mother's attempts at arguing turn into attempts at lovemaking. The vanity's mirror taps the wall rhythmically.

"Well, Blake," Laurie says to her spider, stroking the solid balloon of his abdomen, "looks like we have to entertain ourselves a while. You like stories?" As it turns out, Blake is an avid listener but a terrible diplomat. Within the week he bites Sally, who screams about getting the damn thing out of her house.

Before she can take it back, Laurie carries Blake out to the back porch and sets him down. "Go," she snarls. The tarantula hunkers down, and it's his caution that kills him. "I said get." He doesn't. Laurie can feel hot anger coiling in her - anger at her mother for sticking her hand in Blake's face, at her mother's stupid boyfriend for assuming it could ever work, at herself for always, _always_ buying into the bullcrap everyone feeds her. Laurie hears the sliding glass door behind her open, sees her mother, a pale contrast to the red-faced anger from before, and the last spike is driven in.

Laurie lifts her foot and sets it down, the tracks of her tennis shoes biting at Blake's back. She stares at her mother, whose mouth is open, hand just over it. Blake scrabbles underneath her, panicking; she can feel him squirming through her shoe. She stomps down, breaks his body with a wet cracking sound. Her mother's face twists.

"There," she says, scraping a yellow line of guts across the pavement. "Blake's dead. Are you happy now?"

Blinded by the black energy pulsing in her stomach and chest, Laurie doesn't see her mother cover her heart. To her, there's no regret from Sally.

That night, she finds her mother crying in the den.

She doesn't question it.


	9. Hat, DanxLauriexRorschach

Price  
PG-13  
Crimebusters AU, pre-Roche. Dan/Rorschach/Laurie. Shenanigans happen, like arguing about prostitutes and laughing at Rorschach's hat and a little bit of longing.

One of the first things Laurie learns about Rorschach-the-man, as opposed to Rorschach-the-vigilante, is that he is very possessive of his hat. She learns this when she, Dan, and Rorschach are on patrol together, and a gang member manages to knock his hat off by the brim with an uppercut. Rorschach transforms, rages as he takes the man down and those around him. When the fight is over, he hunts down his hat and, finding it, cradles it with both hands and checks it for damage, like it's a well-loved pet and not an accessory.

When Dan sees Laurie smiling at the sight, he stifles a laugh with his hand and shrugs at her. She twirls her forefinger next to her head. It's supposed to be a joke, but Dan's posture gets sort of weird and tense, and even though he doesn't stop smiling, she can tell he's bothered. (The next time she's about to retort "You're crazy" back at Rorschach, she remembers Dan's posture and how it closed and just _barely_ manages to edit herself.) Rorschach brushes the hat off even though it's not dusty and sets it back on his head with a little nod: _There. Everything's as it should be._

Laurie bites her lip to keep from snickering.

A month after that, the Crimebusters are all sitting in hodge-podge chairs and arguing about how to treat whores. It's such a phenomenally ridiculous topic, because most of them seem to have no grasp on what the average prostitute goes through. Laurie, who works on-and-off with a woman's shelter, is at least _slightly_ more knowledgeable about the topic, but the Comedian and Nelly keep drowning her out. She's getting to the point where she'd like to take her chair to somebody's face. (Maybe Jon's; even though he's remained silent on the subject at hand, he could take it without serious injury.) She's glad Rorschach, at least, is keeping out of it, though also a little confused - the creep has no qualms about calling her or her mother a whore, or about making his opinion on women quite clear.

But he's just sitting there, staring at - well, actually, Laurie has no _idea_ where he's staring.

"What I'm saying," Laurie snarls through clenched teeth, "is that those women would benefit more from a shelter than a prison. Jesus, there's _no reason_ to beat up a prostitute, _none at all-_"

"That's not what I'm sayin'," the Comedian interrupts, and it's so obvious that he's not taking her seriously that Laurie doesn't know why she's even bothering. "What I'm sayin' is…"

Nelly cuts in, "Prostitution is a _crime,_ and most of these women _chose_ to partake in the profession. Prison isn't the end of the world, Laurie. Their sentences are never very long, you know that."

"That's not the _point,_" Laurie says, but before she can go into statistics, Rorschach stands. The room's focus moves to him; ordinarily, Rorschach is uncomfortable under such scrutiny, but he seems very calm, adjusting a glove.

"Pointless to argue about it," he says, "Prostitutes are hardly worth the low prices they attach to themselves, much less our time. If you'll excuse me, I have things to do." The room's silent for a moment (Laurie too stunned to react properly); with a brisk nod, he pushes his way between Ozymandias and Jon and heads for the door.

Laurie stares after him. God, she wants a smoke, and to get away from the group, and she wants to argue with Rorschach, and that's enough for her jump to her feet. _Hardly worth the low prices_ - it's so much bullshit; she clenches her fists and stalks wordlessly after him. She catches up to him halfway down the hall, and she forces him around by his shoulder. He doesn't try to push her away. "Did you_really_ just," she says, heated and furious, but he doesn't look at her. He's detached from the situation entirely. "Rorschach," she warns.

"If you put a price on yourself you will inevitably only be worth that much," he explains, the words smooth. "They're only insulting themselves." After a breath's length of silence, he adds, "Not worth thinking about."

Laurie smacks her legs in exasperation. "Seriously? You _really_ think that? That you can put a _price_ on people you don't even _know?_"

Rorschach turns his body towards her, and she can feel his eyes traveling over her body. The silence between them shifts into uncomfortable territory, and Laurie is hard-pressed not to smack him. At length, he nods. The door to the meeting room swings open, Dan hurrying out, only stopping when he sees them.

Laurie glances back.

"Everything okay?" Dan asks in Nite Owl's voice, which Laurie always thinks is really corny and sorta cute. It's enough to take the edge off, though she'd still kill for a smoke.

Laurie nods.

"My mother," Rorschach says to Laurie, very quietly, as if that is enough to keep the conversation private, "was a good woman before she cheapened herself."

Neither Laurie nor Dan move for a second as the statement sinks in. Rorschach doesn't seem bothered at all, as if he's just told them about the weather outside, but Laurie's talked to Dan enough to know that Rorschach secrets himself away, never talks about himself if he can help it.

He must figure there's enough kids with whores as their mom that this does not need to be confidential.

"Rorschach." Dan's shoulders wilt, his Nite Owl voice absent. Laurie looks between the two and wonders what's just passed - Dan doesn't look concerned, instead almost irritated, maybe. Or just upset.

"Wait, so your mom…?"

"You would've gotten along well with her," Rorschach says, and there's no inflection but Laurie knows an insult when she sees one.

Vengeance is swift and silent: She stretches one slim hand out, snatches his hat, and presses it to her head. "Call me a whore again," she says as Rorschach bristles, angry fists and rising shoulders, "and the hat gets it."

Rorschach jerks the hat off her head with enough force to move hair into her face. Laurie doesn't even try to stop him, hands on her hips. It was, after all, just a warning. "Immature brat," he snaps.

"Rorschach," Dan tries, but the insult glances off of Laurie's curving lips and Dan's entreaty glances off the back of Rorschach's old trench coat as he turns away.

Her smile is knife-sharp, and it doesn't reach her eyes.

Two weeks after that, Laurie and Dan huddle together on a rain-soaked fire escape and Dan explains to her with a voice that matches the rain that the hat cost more than the rest of Rorschach's costume, that he only has the one, that he hopes Laurie doesn't really do anything to it because he can't afford another one; _please, Laurie,_ he whispers, _he doesn't know why it upsets you;_ and after it all: "He's never told me flat-out about his mother," soft, pleading face, palms open, fingers out. _This is all I have._

Laurie brushes back a lock of wet hair and, open mouth against his burning cheek, "I won't take him from you."

A year later, when Laurie next divests Rorschach of his fedora, she is straddling his lap, and she rests it on her head with both hands, cradling it. Dan's hand warms her lower back, and when she smiles, the knives reach her eyes.


	10. San Antonio by Naomi Shihab Nye, Ror Dan

New York Sunrise  
G  
Post/During-Keene Act. Dan/Rorschach. Rorschach lingers over Dan.

Outside, the light is opalescent, a clean gray morning creeping its way over the disjointed puzzle of New York City's fabricated horizon. Color still hasn't reached Rorschach's optic nerves, so that Daniel's coverlet is all monotone. Black, yes, and white, too, but predominantly grays. It is a(n absence of) color scheme that he has always been drawn to, for how quiet it is. Rorschach used to dream cool, dark caves into existence, until the filthy corner away from his mother was just darkness, sweet and cool on his tongue. Nearly thirty years apart from that grimy child Rorschach can still taste solitude on the roof of his mouth, not dissimilar to the air in Daniel's basement.

Daniel's chest rises and lowers, rhythmically. If he is dreaming, he is dreaming something gentle.

Rorschach won't take that from him. There are enough wounds between them, always fresh, and he knows there is only so much he can protect Daniel from, now that Daniel's muscles stiffen rather than relax when he discovers Rorschach waiting downstairs, a lone companion for Archimedes. There is only so much patience Rorschach can endure before it is too much. He recognizes the line between camaraderie and dependence quite clearly, and knows that it's been crossed. He should be glad that Daniel is afraid of him. (Rorschach doesn't promise things often, but once, in '68, he promised never again, never again, and Daniel held his bleeding nose and stared. He's kept it. Daniel doesn't expect him to, but he will, until the end of things.) It doesn't hurt that he is. Rorschach never hurts.

They were only ever partners, and Daniel has only ever been soft, and Rorschach has never been sentimental. He scoffed at Daniel's attempts to celebrate anniversaries. He never tried to ki - Rorschach knows more than enough about friendships to understand their finite nature.

Blue worms its way past the curtains, then pink. Rorschach doesn't know how long he's been here. He loses himself in thought very easily, always has. However, he is not a dreamer; he is a realist. That is why he will patrol when the morning cycles back into night, and why Daniel will forfeit his power for the next book he can find, forgetting. Rorschach thinks of all the ways the two of them are different, how pitiable Daniel is compared. Rorschach's fists are loose, his shoulders are slumped. He's relaxed.

Daniel has nothing for him. He is no more capable of stopping the inevitable than anyone else.

Rorschach sits. He'll stay until Daniel wakes.


	11. Paranoia, Comedian

Paroxysm  
R  
Post-Vietnam. Comedian/His canon ladies. The Comedian does not have the smoothest transition from 'Nam to the States.

**Warnings:** Racial prejudice and misogyny, excessive violence and cursing, drug and alcohol abuse, phantom!mpreg, some suicidal behavior, unfortunate use of second person.

You don't leave Vietnam unscathed.

The wound burns for weeks, and you never bought into all the crap about Charlie's magic like some of the guys did, but you have seen enough to know that stranger things can happen, and you can't help but - well, not _worry,_ because you never worry, but you _do_ think about it. A lot. It doesn't help that drinking booze feels like setting your face on fire, and that booze is the one thing that helps you forget.

You end up lying on your left side in your one-man apartment, staring at a blank wall for hours because the doctors only give you so many pain meds and you're gonna need to make your current batch last. Two pills should've been enough for tonight. They're not. Each throb of pain, courtesy of something as automatic as your own damn heart, makes you remember, the remembering slowed down by the way the dark and your mind work together, against you, so that the instant slash of the bottle up your face takes a whole hour to happen in little snapshots.

The bottle catches your lip. _Throb._

The bottle hits your tooth with the smallest clink. You can already taste blood. _Throb._

Her face is contorted in fury - and for all you know she lost a brother or a daddy to you, or to Dr. Manhattan, or to any one of the dumbfuck dirty-faced soldiers you've met in your fifteen-month-long tour. The bottle cuts into your gums on its way up, which is a unique pain, so your focus all centers on the nick there instead of the jagged cut that's opening up your face. _Throb._

Ad nauseum, throb, sometimes to the point of feeling damn _skin cells_ separating. It's nuts, absolutely _nuts._ You've literally flayed a Vietnamese soldier, and this, _this_ is what keeps you up at night. Well. This and the pain, of course.

Sometimes you dream about it, the solid warmth of the gun, Dr. Fucking Manhattan saying your name, that bitch's tears all down her face, looking pregnant and beautiful and you want to fuck her (sometimes you wake up hard) and you want to kill her and you want to keep her alive just long enough for her to regret ever breaking that bottle.

Sometimes you dream it's Sal, her curls all damp with sweat, pleading in a language she probably ain't ever heard. She's always pregnant with Laurie - and in the dream you always know it, though it really doesn't matter.

Once, it's Laurie, smiling in the secret way she did in '66. When you wake from that one, you scramble for your pistol and have it halfway to your mouth before you remember that it was just a dream. It's then, staring down the thin barrel of the gun, that you consider that there are outside forces at work.

. . .

And anyway, haven't weirder things than that happened? Didn't they lock you up for a week when you ran into a base with dead skin on your shirt and six bullets missing from your gun and the word_zombie_ on your lips? Didn't you see him coming from half a mile off and hit your mark, didn't he keep coming, didn't he have holes where his eyes shoulda been and the left side of his jaw blown away, didn't the dead rise in a physical way that night, doesn't Dr. Manhattan live though he died, don't ghosts have their own means and motives, and, and, _fuck._

You crack open a 1924 Stolichnaya and drink until you can say with confidence that all that paranormal business is bullshit. The pain in your cheek is worth it.

. . .

There's this vendor on the street who's always selling dried foods. He wasn't there before 'Nam, not that you remember. He's obviously Vietnamese, always calling out to passerbys in that heavy accent, and when he curses to himself you know every word. You don't like him one bit, which you think is hilarious because you always got on pretty well with the gooks when you weren't killing them. You make a point of buying some jerky from him every day until he recognizes you on the street and calls out things like, "Mr. Eddie! I have fine meat for you today, top quality!" You act like his buddy, a loyal customer.

He knows you went to the war, though you've never told him and he doesn't know that you're the Comedian. You're pretty sure he knows you killed Qui and her little baby; not that he'd ever bring it up. He also knows that you'll kill him in a heartbeat, given the chance, though you haven't told him anything near that - he's quick to give you discounts and little extras, pushing dried fruits in your hands with the jerky and insisting that Mr. Eddie take it, it's a gift to such a good customer.

You keep a close eye on him.

. . .

After the wound's more or less healed, you walk the docks and streets in costume more often than you have since you were a kid. The government boys don't like it; it means they have a harder time looking you up, but you're fucking sick of those assholes always wanting petty jobs from you. They aren't giving you pain meds anymore, either, and maybe in your own petty way that's one of the main reasons you're giving them the slip.

Funny thing about the underworld, though, is that it's basically downgraded war games, and here the participants have a much better reaction when you haul out the good stuff. The government boys don't want you to kill people on the streets, though, so mostly you spend your time giving kids wicked scars and scaring the shit out of them.

Ozzy starts tailing you within a week, which is almost _cute_ (little fag) except he won't come out and talk to you, so you end up mistaking him for a ghost over and over again. You know he's looking for a fight, but apparently he wants to scare the crap out of you first, though he probably doesn't know that's what he's doing. Prick's probably "observing" you for the sake of understanding war, but if he'd just_ask_ he'd figure out that war's never _changed_ you; war _charges_ you, enhances you. You figure he'll get that soon enough and will quit shadowing you, the whisper of his cloak raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

More than once you turn towards his "hiding" place and unload a round of bullets, casually, with a smile. Each time you hope you'll hit him "on accident." Each time you miss.

Que sera sera.

. . .

Not two months after the war ends, a new gang starts to crop up. They call themselves the Viet Bronx, and you fucking _loathe_ every last one of them. They're all immigrants from 'Nam, and you know some of them gotta be Charlie, ex-members of the good ol' NVA. You know this because you never see them and they never go to jail - once, you run into Nite Owl and Rorschach and bring it up with them, expecting nothing. Rorschach tenses and opens and closes his hands like he wants to strangle something. Nite Owl explains that they've been trying to find some members, but that they're just so impossible to catch, even when you stumble right into them committing crimes.

You just laugh at them, and inform them that they might as well make some good luck charms and hope they don't run into the Viet Bronx anymore.

. . .

There's just more and more dinks showing up on the streets these days, as if now that the US owns their ruddy little country they can come _here._ You wonder why the fuck they've bothered to leave Cali, if they had to come to the States at all.

You invest in some good smokes, ones that are less tobacco and more a friendly symmetrical plant, and manage to ignore them.

When you go the army-issue doc and inform him that your face still hurts sometimes (at night, you don't mention, always at night), he tells you it's just phantom pain.

The government boys give you a warning for breaking his nose and some Vicodin for your trouble.

. . .

The vendor just up and disappears one day without warning. When you ask around, no one knows what the fuck you're talking about.

Your skin crawls until you're down seven shots and two joints, and then you are relaxed enough to only blink when Qui knocks on your door, hands you a package (sign here, please, Mr. Eddie), and walks off. You forget to ask how the baby is until she's long gone.

. . .

Your next investment is in acid, three tabs - one for you, one for Ozzy if he's willing to trip with you without making it all spiritual, and one for the road. That's what you need to get out of this weird limbo world, you decide - a nice long trip to take your mind off things. Hell, it was the first thing you did back from the Pacific, and you never got wounded then and you definitely never shacked up with a broad. You never dealt with anything like Manhattan, then, either. You've got a hunch that he messes people up, and you never _worry,_ of course, but you hope Laurie gets the heck outta Dodge sooner rather than later.

Turns out Ozzy doesn't want to trip with you, and when you mention how much time you've been spending together anyway he just gives you a Look, like he's not sure how to reply to that and is real damn happy about it.

You end up holing up in your apartment, listening to Frank Sinatra and sipping water as the room changes. An hour in, you snatch a loaf of bread out of your fridge and head down to Central Park to feed the ducks and hobos, which turns out to be a pretty terrible idea, because VC are crawling all over the place and Qui's waiting for you at a pond. She's sitting next to your kid, who looks real calm despite the fact he's turned inside out. He even knows your name, and that's where you draw the line, when your little inverted fetus-child looks up and calmly says how much he likes the duckies in America.

It's not so much a bad trip as a wake-up call. You stay in your apartment for five straight days. Nobody calls, which bothers you - doesn't anyone notice you're gone? - but there is a tapping on the door at night that's not so bad until midnight hits. That's when the baby starts crying, and Qui tries to hush him.

. . .

You don't drink for a while. You smoke cheap cigarettes. You consume fast food voraciously, because the smell of certain spices makes you feel sick.

You look up Hollis and stand outside of his shop a few hours, but you don't have anything to say to him.

You accept your next mission from the government, and follow it through with fervor.

. . .

A bump starts to grow on your stomach. You're getting fat, but you don't _get_ fat.

"You fucking bitch," you say, staring at yourself in the mirror. Qui, in your periphery, taps a broken bottle to her cheek. She's colorless.

Stranger things have happened, after all.

. . .

The Vicodin runs out way too fast, and you can't go into a doctor's office with some Vietnamese curse playing games with you. The best idea you've got is to sit at home and drink, maybe watch some TV. Ride this thing out. It's progressing very quickly; it's just been a week since you first noticed the bump and you already look so bloated that you couldn't go outside without drawing attention to yourself. The real kicker is that it _hurts like a bitch -_ it periodically feels like you're getting stabbed in the stomach over and over again, though the pain seems to happen at random.

At some point you realize you're running a fever, but you can't find the damn thermometer so you just curl up in the bath with ice floating around you. You stare at the impeccable white ceiling until the shakes get so bad that you knock your head against the faucet getting out.

You wake up sprawled on the linoleum floor and curse in five different languages, so loudly that a neighbor knocks on the front door and yells for you to shut the fuck up.

You respond in the most rational way you can think of: By following the dick into his room and shoving him out of his window. For a second you consider watching him fall, but you need some aspirin or something, and _now,_ so you just stagger back to your room.

. . .

The booze is all gone.

Fuck.

. . .

Two nights later, you have that dream again, the memory-dream that's all lit blue by Dr. Manhattan though he's not an actual person in the dream. Qui cuts your face, like she always does. This time you just feel tired and feverish, even the dream-you, but you still unhook the pistol from its holster and level it at her. She's beautiful. You want to put the gun down, not because you regret what you've done or because you care about her, but because you already know what happens next.

Which is odd. You've always had terrible foresight.

Before you shoot her, you wake up. The fever's making you feel thick and clumsy as you fumble for your gun, your movements disconnected from reality. The gun is cold as ice, so you just hold it against your scar for a minute, leeching what coolness you can from it. When it's warmer than your face feels, you press the gun against your stomach, holding it all wrong, like an amateur, which is odd - you've used guns since you were a tyke. You sigh and lean back. The gun goes off.

. . .

You wake up with a nurse's tits in your face.

"Nice rack, babe," you say, a little surprised at the statement. Been a while since you talked to a woman like that.

She actually giggles at you. _Stupid cunt,_ you think, but you dredge up a smile for her. Blonde waves like a porn star's roll over her shoulders, so you assume you're either dreaming or in heaven. Both are pretty funny, because you've never liked blondes. What a world.

You drift off again.

. . .

This time, you're out on the field, flanked by guys in standard army-issue fatigues. You recognize some of them. All boys who were killed in action.

A woman stands across the paddy, unarmed, completely at ease. You have a clear shot.

You smile, and you lift your gun.


End file.
